The Tale of Clan Green
by Robert Pinewood
Summary: The story of a man named Clan and his allies, on a quest to find a land untouched by war.
1. Chapter 1

It was a hot day in the desert. Of course most days in the desert are hot, but this day was particularly hot. The sun beat down mercilessly, frying anything that dared hold still too long on the hardpan. For miles, there was nothing but bright, dry hardpan desert, and flowing mirage lines in a complete circle. It was on that day, that a tall, dark figure moved silently across the desert. He was just over six feet with dark skin and deep brown eyes, clad in a burlap wanderer's outfit. It looked almost like a robe, with a hood for keeping the sun off of your head, and straps attached everywhere for keeping handy things in. He himself, kept a big survival knife strapped to his belt. Just beneath the bottom of his skirt, you could see faded denim jeans and worn leather boots. By his side was a muscular brahmin with three packs slung over it. They were stuffed until they almost burst at the seams, with god knows what. They bulged in odd and alien shapes, pointed and rounded alike. Three waterskins, two empty and one barely filled with anything hung on one side. A bell dangled from the brahmin's neck, which rang out low every time it took a step. Carved into the bell was the word "Bo".

The two of them walked side by side, neither talking or mooing (or whatever the hell it is brahmin do), just calmly making their pace as if they weren't burning to death out in the middle of nowhere. As the sun finally began to set, the man produced a still full waterskin from beneath his robe, and took a long swig, being sure to savor it, swish it about his mouth a bit, and swallow it slowly. It washed down his throat, cooling it almost to the point that steam spouted from his nostrils. Or at least, that's how he felt. He was dying of thirst, he knew. Another day of this, and he'd be dead for sure. He hadn't eaten in days, and his water was nearly used up. Despite his calm demeanor, he was losing hope of living. But, like anyone wise knows, panicking will only make it worse. So, he walked on, aware f the danger, but not giving nature the satisfaction of seeing hi squirm.

Finally, the sun retreated behind distant mountains, blurred from mirage like everything else, and he sighed. Now would come the cold, and while it was better than the scorching day, keeping warm without a tent was not easy. Suddenly, something caught his eye. Just beyond his line of sight, he saw something, a light, flick on. His heart stopped. His legs wobbled, then held tight, not letting him move another inch. The brahmin kept on, but he couldn't take another step. He continued to stare at the speck of light, to assure himself it wasn't just his imagination. But as he was staring, more lights flicked on. At least five. A smile stretched slowly across his chapped and cracked lips, cutting a thin pink line through his dark face. He began to move again, catching up to Bo. Bo too, had seemed to spot the distant traces of life, because his steps became longer and more rapid. Together they nearly jogged their way to the small town.

The entered the town limits after half an hour or so, passing a plywood sign on the way that read "Welc me to Newton" in faded white paint, held up by two two-by-fours. The town was not much more than a long strip of beaten road, lined with about fifteen buildings. The first two they passed were a post office and a clinic. Since the only things that ailed him were an empty stomach and a dry mouth, he scoped out the saloon in a hurry. As soon as he spotted it, he started to make headway for it, before realizing that he had no caps to his name. First things first, he'd have to cash in. Just a few doors down from the saloon was a two story building with a sign that read "Sundries!" in bright orange. He lead Bo over, and untied the sacks from him. After swinging them over his own back, he headed into the bat-wing doors that stood in the front archway. They creaked loudly as he went through them, the left one barely budging at all. He guess they didn't have much oil to spare in this town. As soon as he was in, he spotted the front desk. In fact, it was just about five feet from the door. The rest of the building was likely devoted to sleeping quarters and storage space. Behind the desk, was an old man, with a leathery face and thinning hairline, wearing a vault suit with the number painted over in blue. He thumbed through a copy of Pugilism Illustrated, that was missing half of the front cover and looked a bit scorched around the edges. He glanced up to see the stranger entering his shop, and put the magazine beneath the counter, then came back out with a long barreled revolver. The stranger stopped dead, not daring to agitate the man. They stood off for a moment, before the old man spoke up.

"Welcome to Miguel's Sundries. Can I help you?" he asked, using his thumb to cock the hammer on his revolver. The stranger looked down at the gun, thinking of the best was to approach the situation. Finally he concluded that the best way was to be frank.

"My name is Clan. I just got into town, and I wanted to trade some goods for caps, if that's all right with you. I just figured you'd be able to make best use of-"

"Caps?" the old man interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't use caps round here?" asked Clan, shoulders starting to ache from the weight of the sacks.

"No no, we do. I just thought you were...never mind. I'd be happy to help you," said the old man. He smiled, releasing the hammer and tucking the revolver into his belt. Clan slowly approached, still not wanting to provoke him. He placed all three sacks on the counter, untying them in turn. He reached into the first sack, and came out with a bottle of turpentine.

"Got quality stuff here. Got it from a vault, 82 if I recall. Not much in there but cleaning supplies and radroaches when I got there," he put the bottle down on the counter, and reached into the second bag, bringing out a wad of old dirty money held together with a rubber band, "And this one if filled to bursting with pre-war cash. Collected it over time, but I found a lot of it in an old hideout. Check the dates, they're from way before the war." Sure enough, the old man read the dates, and they were from at least 10 years before the war began. He nodded at them, then placed them on the counter next to the turpentine. Clan reached into the final sack, and pulled out a dirty battery. "This one's got nothing but spare electric parts. Good ones too. I pulled them out of the bots myself when I could, but I picked a few of them up in abandoned houses." He put it back in the sack, then placed the other two items back in their respective bags before wiping his hands on his chest. "How much you think you can give me?" he asked the old man.

Miguel seemed to retreat into thought briefly, then he began to inspect the sacks, sizing up a good amount to swindle Clan with. "Five for turpentine, three for any other cleaners, twenty for every pound of cash, fifteen for batteries, and twenty for fusion cells." Clan smiled, clearly not buying it.

"Double that, and it's a deal," he said. Miguel reacted with a surprised look. Then his face quickly turned sour. Lines grew all over his face, and he spoke with a sudden authority.

"You think all this garbage is worth that much? Boy, you sure h'ain't been in the trading business long have you?" he said.

"Long enough to know when an old codger is trying to cheat me out of my caps," said Clan, leaning in toward Miguel, smiling still. They locked eyes for a few minutes, neither adding a word to the argument. The room was silent all the while, and Clan could pick out a slight whistle from the old man as he inhaled. Finally, the old man broke and gave a loud groan.

"Fine," he said, "I'll give you half a cap to every cap, and I'll throw in a .45 and a box of ammo. There are heap of critters past here, and that knife ain't gonna keep you safe against any geckos."

Clan thought it over for a moment, before agreeing. Miguel turned around, and headed for the back room. It was through a rotting old doorway, that looked like rats had been chewing it. Clan leaned on the counter, thinking about what he'd get with his new bundle of caps. Images of brahmin steaks, and cold beer danced in front of his eyes. His mouth watered a little. He hadn't eaten in so long, and real meat, not that irradiated gecko or radroach crap that was more cartilage than muscle, was pretty rare out here. With so little water, keeping brahmin was a hard enterprise. Miguel came back shortly, with an attache case in one hand, and two lock-boxes, one in hid hand and the other tucked under his arm. He laid them out, then started going through the sacks. He counted the loot one at a time, writing the numbers down on a clipboard next to the register. In total, he took from one lock-box three hundred caps. Then he opened the attache case, and showed the contents to clan. There were two pistols, one light with a ring hammer and wood finish, and the other metallic black with a normal hammer and a black grip. Clan took them both apart and inspected them, not ignorant to the glare from Miguel, who clearly took offense to anyone having to double check his goods before buying. Finally, Clan chose the lighter one, and Miguel gave him a holster to clip onto his belt as a bonus. Clan attached the leather holster and slid the pistol into it. The weight of the gun felt good against his hip. It made him feel more secure, even without anything in the chamber. Miguel slid the other lock-box toward him, which Clan assumed held the ammo he was promised.

"Got eighty rounds in that box, and the clip holds ten at a time. You should be able to make 'em last if you don't go shooting everything that moves," said Miguel.

"I appreciate it," said Clan, looking down at the gun. It was sort of mesmerizing to look at. One of those things that makes a man feel more like a man. He turned on his heel, stuffing his caps into the largest pouch on his belt. As he made his way out, he could hear Miguel grumbling under his breath while he put away his new goods. When he was out of the bat-wing doors, Bo was trying futilely to graze on a patch of dried grass. "Don't eat that boy, you'll get sick," said Clan. He said that, but he didn't know where there would be a better option for food. He supposed he'd just have to ask if anyone around would be willing to spare some feed for a few caps. He untied Bo from the post he was secured to, and lead him toward the saloon.

The night was staring to cool down now, and crickets were sounding in the dark corners of the world. As they approached the saloon, Clan began to hear laughing from inside. It was only two or three people, Clan cold tell from the changes in tone of the incoherent murmur. He secured Bo to a new post, and patted him on the head. Bo let out a low groan and closed his eyes. He was tired. So was Clan. He moved up the wood steps, they creaked as he did. The sound inside stopped, and as he opened the front door, he was surprised to see five guns pointed at him.

He spotted the bar a few yards from the entrance, where a greenish ghoul stood. He wore a dirty tank top and coveralls were hanging about his waist. He had one eye, the other looked like a mass of pussy flesh, and it was focused directly on him. He brandishes an old double-barreled shotgun. A little ways away from the bar was a red-headed, light skinned, freckled woman with her hair done up in a bun, and a pink checkered dress. It was pic noticeably clean compared to the bartender's clothes. She had a tin tray with three bottles of beer on it in one hand, and a short barreled revolver in the other. Sitting at one of three tables in the room were three men in vault jumpsuits, with the numbers covered in blue paint just like Miguel's. One was black with a shaved head, split lip and squinted eyes, holding a 10mm pistol in his right hand. Next to him was a chubby man with loose hair and an untamed beard flying all about his head. His face was a bit red, Clan noticed. He was holding a bottle of whiskey in his right hand, and a 10mm sub-machine pistol in his left. Finally there was a skinny young man with his blond hair combed to one side, and small blue eyes. He looked by far the most nervous, since he had both hands on his rifle, which was a simple hunting rig with a scope duct taped on top.

Clan glanced about the room, taking in the scene. He slowly raised his hands up over his head, and said, "I'm not bringing any trouble. I just got to town, and I was hoping for a drink and a place to sleep." They looked at him a moment longer, then collectively stashed their weapons. The ghoul behind the bar motioned for him to come over, so he did. There being no stools, Clan leaned up against the bar. The ghoul went into a cooler against the wall and brought out a bottle of beer.

"Sorry about that," he said in a terribly raspy voice, "We're just a bit jumpy lately. Name's Otto. Pretty young thing walking around is Maggie. Those guys are just dunces that show up every night with a handful of caps.

A jesting cry of "Fuck you Otto!" came from behind Clan, followed by chuckles and the commencement of casual conversation. Clan drowned it out, giving Otto his full attention.

"I'm Clan. Came from far northeast, near what they call the Capitol Wasteland," said Clan, twisting the top off of the beer.

"No shit, the Capitol? I heard about that place. They say there's green everywhere, and clean water. And some new government that ain't been touched by the Legion," said Miguel, smiling wide and folding his arms.

Clan took a long swig of the cold drink. It was a million times better than lukewarm water. "Well sorry to tell you, but that's all a load of shit."

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you mean?" asked Otto. He uncrossed his arms, and put them down on the counter, leaning closer in to Clan. He looked like someone had just told him his mother died, and Clan couldn't blame him. People needed fairy tales these days, but at the same time, Clan wasn't the kind of person to let someone believe a lie.

"When I started on my way here," began Clan, pausing to take another long swig of cold beer. It was even better than the first.

"I passed through an Enclave scout post. They were mighty thorough, so I asked if something had happened recently that had them on edge. They assured me that nothing had happened that they couldn't handle. Which meant of course, that something they never expected to happen had, and they had no way of knowing how to deal with it." Clan took another swig. Now, Maggie had walked over to the bar, and stood next to him. The three drinkers behind Clan also seemed to have quieted down.

"Now, me being the curious fellow I am, I decided to poke around a little to see what was going on. I found out, that another band of scouts had made contact with the Enclave's. They wore plastic, spiky armor and helmets. They were all covered from head to toe in blood red. A skirmish started, for who knows what reason, and a few Enclave men were killed. Long story short, the Enclave was scared to death that there were more than that just hiding, ready to pounce." Clan finished of the last of his drink, and Otto was quick to get him a new one. He placed it down next to the empty bottle and resumed his listening position. Maggie was almost breathing down his neck, and if Clan had turned around, he was sure he would have seen three very intent men with shocked looks that mirrored Otto's.

"And the Enclave is this new government? They said it was so smooth..." said Otto.

"Yeah. Not new though. They've been around since before... for a real long time now. And as long as I've been around, they had plenty of their own trouble. The Brotherhood for example," said Clan.

Maggie chimed in, "You mean the Brotherhood of Steel stretches all the way out there? I thought they just hung around south of the mountains these days."

"Ain't you heard? The NCR done pushed 'em way to the southeast. Say the hit an ocean before they stopped." It was the black man, who Clan turned to see contorted in his seat so that he could see the bar.

"Yeah well, when I left they were still going strong in the northeast. They've been resorting to guerrilla tactics sure, but they were in no need of troops and fission batteries," said Clan, looking into the foam of his beer. He chugged the whole thing down, set it back on the bar, and asked Otto, "You got any meat in this joint? I'm hungry as hell."

"Yeah, no problem," said Otto. He picked himself up off of the counter and went to the icebox. He rustled around for a minute and said, "You're in luck. I got two Brahmin steaks left from the last traders to come around. There ten caps a piece though."

Clan shook the pouch on his belt, letting Otto hear the jingling of caps inside. Otto looked back to him, nodded, and removed the two steaks from the icebox. He walked over to the grill, near the end of the bar, and started the flame. When it was lit, he laid the steaks out.

Otto came back to where Clan was standing, "We ain't got nothing to spice it up, so it'll be bland."

Clan waved his hand in dismissal. He was just happy to get something hot in his stomach. Then he remembered Bo, who was standing outside just as hungry and thirsty as he was. "I meant to ask you; I came with a Brahmin and I was wondering if you had any feed and some water for him."

"Sure," said Otto, "We got piles of dry grass we sell as kindling to traders who come through here. You can have it, it doesn't sell that well anyway. And I'm sure we can fill a bucket with water. Maggie!" he looked over toward Maggie, who seemed to snap out of a trance when her name was called, "Take the brahmin to where we keep the grass, and fill a bucket at the spigot for it. And do it quick."

Maggie did got off the counter and went outside to do what she was told. Shortly after she's gone out, a scream sounded. Clan spun around, then looked back to Otto who had already began making his way around the bar with his shotgun in hand. The three drinkers also got up, readying their weapons. They all rushed outside to see what was going on. Through the door, the looked around and saw Maggie leaning against the wall, staring at Bo, who still seemed to be asleep.

"W-w-what the h-hell is wrong with that thing!" cried Maggie. Otto and the drinkers looked over at Bo, and also seemed taken aback when they realized what it was. Clan was perplexed for a moment, then caught on. He walked over to Bo and patted him on the head. The one head he had.

"No no, Bo's only got one head because he's mutated. I found him like this a couple of years ago. I know it's kind of freaky but he's just as docile as any brahmin," said Clan. He started to scratch Bo's head, moving to his neck slowly. Bo let out a low groan.

"Well if'n that ain't the creepiest thang I ever saw..." said the scrawny blond man, in a weaselly sort of voice. The drinkers stood staring a while longer, but Otto was already chewing Maggie out about not getting her job done. She apologized, and got right to work untying Bo from the post. She lead him around back, doing her best not to get near enough to touch him. Clan grinned, finding it funny that anybody could be frightened by a big softy like Bo. When Maggie and Bo were out of site, the lot remaining headed inside. Everyone resumed their previous positions, except for Otto who busied himself turning over the steaks on the grill.

As Clan was opening a third beer, provided by Otto during a short break in the cooking process, one of the drinkers approached him from behind. Clan looked over his shoulder to see it was the heavy one with the wild hair. He extended a thick, dirty hand.

"I don't believe we were properly introduced," his voice was deep and gravelly. It also had the slightest hint of authority to it, almost as much as Otto's. Clan took his hand and shook twice, feeling a lot of strength in the hand. "Folks here call me Bush. The muscular fellow is Crow, and the little ratty looking one is Sticks. We're the work crew around town. We fix what's broken, from pipes to pumps. We can repair weapons a bit too, and Sticks is good with a needle and thread. If there's anything you need, we're happy to oblige."

Clan smiled and said, "Pleased to meet you. I doubt I'll be in long, but I'll think on it."

"Please do. Now if you'll excuse us," Sticks and Crow got up from their seats and dropped a few caps on the table, "We should be getting home. Gotta full day of work ahead," said Bush. With that, the three of them began to make their way out of the saloon.

"Night Otto," said Bush.

"Night Otto," said Crow.

"Night," said Sticks.

As they left, Maggie came back in, and they all exchanged 'goodnights'. Maggie walked back to the bar and leaned on it, bending over backwards slightly with her elbows on it. Otto finished cooking the steaks, and brought them over on a plate to Clan. He also brought out a fork and knife from under the bar, placing them on the sides of the plate. Clan picked up the utensils and was ready to dig in when he remembered something. He put them back down and looked to Otto, who was cleaning out a mug.

"What's been happening around here? Why have I been getting guns pointed at me all day?"

Otto stopped cleaning. He looked over to Maggie, who shrugged. Otto set the glass down, and threw the rag over his shoulder. Clan made a note never to use a mug in Otto's establishment. Maggie decided now was a good time to bus the table, and did so as Otto began to explain the story of the town to Clan.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

It was a cool day, in the middle of winter. The town was quiet, save for the trio of handymen who were at work patching up the roof on the general store. As they hammered and cursed, Maggie was outside the door of the saloon, smoking a cigarette from the pack she had traded half of her months salary for. Worth every one if you asked her. She inhaled, and exhaled, watching the smoke make oddly shaped rings in the air before dissipating. One of them in particular lasted longer than the others, and as she followed its movement up and above the rooftops, she heard the sound of closing footsteps. She turned to her left and sure enough, there were three men approaching from the outskirts.

Two of them wore leather armor, and carried large black rifles, that had been covered from butt to barrel in all kinds of modifications and accessories. They also had bandanas over their mouths and metal helmets that covered most of their heads, but Maggie could tell they had shaved their heads. The third one, shorter than the other two, wore a gray suit and cowboy boots. He had a hat that matched the color of the suit, sitting atop a head of curly red hair. His face was covered in gray stubble and he had sunglasses with little, yellow, circular lenses. Maggie thought he looked tacky as they got, but his caps were just as good as anyone's.

She put out her smoke on the wood railing around the porch, and descended the stairs, approaching the short man. Within 5 feet of him, she was hit with a strong smell of some spicy musk. It was so bad she checked to make sure her eyes weren't watering. She closed in close enough to speak to the man, but he hadn't seemed to notice her yet. He and his companions kept walking even when she moved ahead of them and smiled her best smile.

"Hey there fellas, I see you just got into town. Big fellas like you, you must be thirstier than a trader with a full pack in the summertime. Why don't you come on down to that there saloon and my boss'll set you up right with a few cold ones?" Maggie said, believing she had once again nailed her innocent waitress persona. She'd have a bonus this month if she kept this up.

But the man in the suit just kept walking. One of the taller men glanced at her, but he looked away without showing her any interest. Maggie realized her act wasn't working, and stopped walking alongside them. Her phony smile turned into a frown and she stuck her tongue out at them behind their backs. She began making her way back to the saloon when she saw Otto standing in the doorway. He was watching the three men walk toward the store with a worried look. Maggie ascended the steps and poked him in the ribs with her index finger.

"What's with that look. You know those goons?" she asked, looking over at them, but with curiosity instead of Otto's worry. They had stopped outside the store, and were discussing something. The short man seemed very fond of hand gestures, because his hand were flying around like gnats in a swarm.

Otto folded his arms and spoke to her without taking his eyes of the scene thirty yards away, "Get inside girl. I got a bad feeling something's about to happen."

Maggie almost smiled, then saw the grave look on his face. She started to back away, but then noticed someone walk out of the store. It was a stout man in dusty leather, and he was waving a hunting revolver. Otto threw an arm out to block Maggie's view, pushing her back a little at the same time. While her vision was obscured, she heard a loud roar, like thunder, and a short grunt. She ducked under Otto's arm to see what had happened. The stout man was spread out on the ground, in a huge splatter of blood. A tall man and the short man were making their way into the store, while the other tall man yelled something at them. Maggie had seen shootings before, but for some reason that sound was still resonating in her head. It was loud as thunder, and all that blood wasn't normal for just one rifle shot.

Otto now grabbed her and shoved her through the doorway of the saloon, shouting at her to get behind the bar and stay quiet, or he'd give her the whipping of a lifetime. He turned and made his way down the stairs. With or without being yelled at, Maggie wouldn't have dared stay out there. She got behind the bar and ducked down, even took Otto's shotgun from it's hiding place and held it against her chest. It made her feel safer. She had no idea how to use it, but how hard could it be?

She stayed there, trying her best not to breathe too loudly, waiting for what seemed like an hour, but it was probably more like a few minutes. She thought about what had happened, trying to make sense of it. Nothing was particularly strange about people coming into town and fighting. It was normal for a small town like this. Even seeing s man be shot down in the street wasn't so frightening anymore. But that sound. And the blood. Something about the blood made it stick in her mind. It was like he had been blasted at point blank with a sawed off, but the two men clearly carried automatic rifles. They couldn't have made a mess like that with only one shot, and Maggie was positive that only one shot was fired. Could the stout man in leather have done himself in? No, he had no reason from what she saw, which admittedly wasn't much but still. And besides, his head wasn't shot, it was still intact, just bloody. Why shoot himself in the torso? That only left the short man, but she hadn't seen a gun on him. Unless of course it was hidden, or maybe there was...

This thought drifted into others, and those did the same until she heard a loud boot-step on the porch. She popped up and saw Otto coming in, looking tired and beaten. He walked past her into the backroom without saying a word. Maggie followed, then turned back to replace the shotgun. She hurried into the backroom, and saw Otto kicking his boots off and getting into his cot in the back corner.

"What happened? Who were those guys? And that guy who got blown away, what did he do?" she asked, approaching slowly, not liking the weariness in his face.

"Don't worry child. Just close up." he said.

"Aw c'mon, tell me! You know I won't stop bugging till you do." said Maggie. Otto seemed to consider it, then rolled onto his back with his hands behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

"Those three men wanted something that that fat little man had. He was a courier I bet. They shot him and took it, and some supplies for the road from the store. They said if we called the law on them, they'd burn this place to the ground without a thought. I believe em too." said Otto.

"Who shot him, the fat man? It was the short one wasn't it?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"Yeah. He showed us the gun. A revolver, only it was shaped like a .45. It had the hammer and chamber like a revolver, just... well you get it. And it looked like it was made of solid gold. Shinier than anything I've seen. Almost blinded me. Oh and the size of the thing. It looked more like a cannon than a gun. I can't believe a short little guy like that was lugging it across the desert."

"It made a sound like thunder clapping," said Maggie. It came out without her knowing, but it was correct. She saw it in Otto's eyes.

"Sure did... Just like thunder. And put a hole in the fat man bigger than my fist. Not even the Nevada Rangers have guns like that. Hell, what am I talking to you for? Lock up and get your ass to bed. Tomorrow your mixin' up a fresh batch of whiskey, then you're gonna clean out all the bottles and mugs."Otto returning to his usual disposition relaxed Maggie.

She did as she was told shortly, and got into her bed, which was upstairs in the only room that was clean enough to stay in. Otto wasn't nice, but he was kind deep down. Her room was small, but it had a writing desk, a warm cot, and a shelf for little things she liked to keep. Mostly it was filled with books and teddy bears that she cleaned up and collected. The books were interesting to go through, and the bears made the room feel cosier. There was also a huge jug on the top shelf, which she dumped her tips into. Otto didn't give her a wage, so the jug held all of her spending money. When trader's came to town, she would take it and buy a new dress, or a bear, or a book, and always a cold Nuka Cola if they had them.

She pulled her checked dress over her head, and threw it into a pile with the other things she had to wash. She had about 14 dresses, all bought with tips, that she wore on the job. She crawled into bed in her undies, and wrapped herself in her ragged quilt. She didn't have a pillow like Otto, so she just laid her head on her arm. Soon sleep took her. She had a dream about Geckos.


End file.
